


My L’Manburg

by pickle001



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Bombs, L’Manburg, Wilbur Soot-centric, no beta we die like wilbur soot, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, tubbo is president
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28087281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickle001/pseuds/pickle001
Summary: Wilbur turned to Dream at his side, anger slipping through his carefully controlled voice.“Is this what you wanted to show me? Your president, drunk in my old drug van?”“That’s not my president,” Dream’s mask betrayed no emotion, but his words were sharp, like a sword honed for battle. “I wanted to show you our surrender,”- The final battle at Manburg, from Wilbur’s perspectiveTW for blood, bombs, mentions of alcohol, swearing
Kudos: 10





	My L’Manburg

“WEAPONS DOWN! PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN!” Wilbur hollered, his voice rushing across the pavilion. The clamor and chaos around him faltered as confused faces turned towards him, swords stopping mid-swing and bows freezing pulled taut. Pogtopians and Manburgians alike halted and turned to him. 

He turned back to Dream, ignoring his comrades’ rising shouts. Facing his enemy, Wilbur hardened his face to match Dream’s now-cracked mask. He could see a small sliver of skin through the crack, a small window to the person who hid his humanness from the world around him. Small rivulets of blood ebbed down from a wound somewhere behind it.  
Wilbur stared at him, waiting for him to begin and defiantly stretching the silence between them. The echoes of battle behind them faded as Dream led Wilbur into a nearby building, ducking into the closest standing structure to talk. 

“So,” Dream began, leaning against a wall, “Long time no speak.” His mask betrayed no emotion, though his voice was amicable as though they were old friends.

“What do you want, Dream?” Wilbur said softly, “Why have you called me here? Where is Schlatt?” His eyes scanned the room, anticipating a trap. He was met with only ghostly shattered windows and drifting ash from the explosives ignited and lobbed from one side to another from the battle outside. 

“Seems like they didn’t put their weapons down,” Dream ignored him. His face was hidden, but WIlbur could hear a smirk creeping into his voice.  
“Seems like it,” he responded.

The silence between them resumed and filled the room, a barrier that Wilbur was unwilling to surrender. Wilbur looked at his cloak, its edges caked in mud and dark splotches of blood. The revolutionary coat had accompanied him since the days of L’Manburg, when he served as president of the country he now fought to reclaim; the country he had rigged to explode at the push of a button. Now, the cloak concealed a double-edged dagger sharpened for battle. 

“We’re done,” Dream said, looking up at his face, “We’re done fighting,” Wilbur’s steely mask slipped as surprise overtook him, stepping towards Dream. He looked down at him, and Dream turned away. The cracked mask shielded him, so Wilbur could not decipher his enemy. 

“What?”

“Come with me,” Dream started striding out of the building, into the frigid air. Wilbur followed him into the fray, calling for his comrades to join him. Their breath clouded around them, swirling with the ash around them and igniting their position for everyone on the battlefield. 

They walked through the decaying city, watched by the cold bones of attacked buildings and fighters who followed behind them like a grim parade. The congregation followed Wilbur and Dream into the center of the city, to a small van that stood alone in the middle of the festival grounds. The Camar Van, the heart of the city and the birthplace of the first revolution, was barely even a structure anymore; It was a couple walls held up by creaking struts and supports, a dying monument to the independence of the city. 

President Schlatt, alone, sat in the Camar Van mumbling long strings of nonsensical phrases to himself. His breath reeked of alcohol, and the empty bottles at his feet attested to his state. During the most influential battle the country ever witnessed, their president cowered in an old drug van, alone and useless. 

The people filed in, clamoring at the edges of the dingy room and staring at the huddled president in the center. The heat of their breath clouded among the stark cold, and once the fog settled he looked around at them, bewildered at the sudden audience. He cleared his throat, nervously fiddling with the faded red tie, which was tightened like a noose at his neck.

“Oh, hi Wilbur,” Schlatt burped, and the crowd cringed, averting their eyes from the indignity before them. Schlatt shifted, his legs knocking some of the bottled over. It made a soft tinkling sound as they knocked against each other and fell to the floor.

“What are you doing in my van, Schlatt?” Schlatt took a swig from one of the bottles at his feet, letting the liquid dribble down his chin and onto his crisp suit. Dark stains spread across his shirt, staining his collar a sickly yellow. “Are you fucking drinking!”

Wilbur turned to Dream at his side, anger slipping through his carefully controlled voice. “Is this what you wanted to show me? Your president, drunk in my old drug van?”

“That’s not my president,” Dream’s mask betrayed no emotion, but his words were sharp, like a sword honed for battle. “I wanted to show you our surrender,” He turned his mask to Schlatt, who was still seated on the floor, “I’m not fighting for you, Schlatt. Not now. Not ever,” 

Dream’s soldiers glanced at him sharply. After the hardships of war, the months of living under Schlatt’s reign, they were alarmed at the surrender but relieved to be done fighting his battles. Schlatt’s reign as president had been mostly deconstructing the laws already there, controlling regular uprisings, and raising taxes until there were people starving in the streets. It had been easy to recruit members for the revolution, for Pogtopia. 

“Fundy! My old friend,” Schlatt glared at the fox, who had taken his helmet off, startling WIlburout of his thoughts, “Who’s gonna-Who’s gonna lift dumbbells with me, man?” His speech was slurred. 

“Schlatt, you fucked up the country!” Fundy blurted out, “You fucked up everything! You had a vision, and I followed it, but you brought the whole country downhill,” The fox spat at Schlatt. “I thought you were something,”

“I am something, Fundy. In fact, I’m something you’ll never be,” He sneered at Fundy, swooning as he stood and kicked a bottle out of his way. He stepped towards him, sticking a finger in his face, 

“I’m a man,”

“Alright, that’s it!” Wilbur stormed forwards, putting himself between Fundy and Schlatt and shoving him backwards. “Don’t touch my son,” He growled. 

“Tommy!” His right-hand man startled at the bite in his voice. “You still have the crossbow I gave you?” He didn’t take his eyes off the fallen president boring his eyes into his enemy’s head.

“Yes, Wilbur,” 

“I want you to put it between his eyes,” Wilbur’s throat burned with hatred for Schlatt. That man, the former president, had taken everything from him; His country, his brothers, his son. “Do it!” He barked, making the bystanders near him jump.  
His younger brother raised the crossbow to face the president, looking down the shaft of the bolt in his hand. He loaded it onto the crossbow, the stretching of the bow loud in the quiet van.

“Victory or death, Schlatt,” He spat, “That’s something you taught me,”

Schlatt threw his head back and laughed, a boasting roar that shook the small van and brought tears to his dark eyes. “I choose victory! I won, right?” He opened his arms, gesturing to the crowd around him. He gasped, stumbling against Wilbur, who shoved him off roughly.

Before he could right himself, Schlatt grabbed at his chest, clawing at the fabric of his suit. His knees buckled, sending him to the floor, his head smashing against the wood, and he gasped again, his breathing ragged and pained. He coughed. “Anyone smell t-toast?”

“Toast?” WIlbur asked, “You having a stroke or something?” He scolded himself silently for the rage evident in his voice. 

Schlatt’s eyes rolled back into his head. His chest stuttered, and then stopped its steady rise and fall. Thick silence poured into the van, creeping through the windows and choking the people inside. Schlatt, the president of Manburg, the most hated man on the server, was dead.

“Probably a heart attack,” Dream said, making Wilbur jump; He had forgotten the masked man was there. “It’s time for a new administration,”  
Tommy, still next to Wilbur, jumped and clapped his hands, beaming. “Wilbur! Wilbur, we won!” The crowd was pulled from their stupor and erupted in cheers, relief plain on everyone’s faces. Manburgians and Pogtopians alike embraced, happiness uniting the opposing sides. Finally, they shouted, finally, we will have food, we will have warmth and safety. They began a chant, a cheer for their new president, “Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!”  
Tommy looked surprised as he was lifted off the ground, glancing at his older brother in his confusion. 

“Go on, President Elect Tommy Innit,” Wilbur grinned reassuringly, “You deserve it,”

They carried him to the podium, to the platform in the center of Manburg, demanding a speech. He grinned, watching the people he had fought alongside, fought for, set him down in front of a microphone. He paused, gathering his courage, then leaned forward to speak.

“H-Hello, everyone,” He chuckled, and Wilbur could see him shifting nervously, not prepared to speak before the nation. “I guess we won!” The crowd of citizens erupted in cheers and whistles, pure jubilation and hope taking hold of the country.  
“And I-I never thought I’d say this, but even after the hardships, the tyranny we’ve been through. Wilbur, Tubbo,” He paused, smiling down at his friends. 

“After everything, it was meant to be!” He smiled, and the crowd cheered for him again. “With that being said, he leaned forward, his eyes scanning the crowd,”Where’s Dream?” 

“I’m right here, Tommy Innit,” His voice was as stony as his mask.

Tommy turned back to his friends, “Wilbur- Thank you, everyone, for making me the president. I-I know you said I never would be,”

“You can be,”

“Wilbur, I can’t be the president of L’Manburg,” the crowd cheered at his speech, at the use of the original name of the country, but quieted as the impact of his words hit him, “I’ve got unfinished business with my dear friend Dream,” 

Manburgians, now L’Manburgians, whispered to one another, questioning and confused. Wilbur was bewildered. Isn’t this what Tommy wanted?

“Tubbo, please come up to the stage,” He opened his arms to his friend, waiting for him on the podium and embracing him once he arrived. Wilbur flushed with anger, but he forced a grin to disguise the scarlet across his face as happiness.  
Tubbo leaned into the microphone, nervous. 

Wilbur turned and left, tiptoeing from the crowd of L’Manburg and shifting his collar up to blend into the shadows of the city. He ignored the speech pouring from Tubbo’s mouth, the cheers of the crowd in approval of their new leader.

Wilbur slunk around the podium, hugging the walls next to him and weaving through the grass. He fumbled with a latch in the ground, tugging a small panel open to unearth a chute, lined with ladders and small, dingy lights. He quickly descended into the tunnel, abandoning his careful manner and hastily going down, throwing his body from one rung to another. The dim lights flickered and fizzed, providing almost no illumination to the tunnel.  
He leaped off the bottom of the ladder, his breath huffing and clouding around the cold room. Wilbur turned and went down a hall that led out from the chute, breaking into a sprint and filling the tunnel with the echoes of his boots. 

WIlbur came to the Detonation Room, a small room at the end of the hall that contained nothing but a button and L’Manburg’s anthem scribbled manically on the walls. 

“My L’Manburg,” He mumbled, reading the song splayed across the walls. “No. No.” He sighed, staring at a button mounted on the wall across from him. He rested his hand on it fondly. The cold stone felt familiar under his fingers, almost delicate. The detonation room, the room he had built, was all that remained of L’Manburg. Of his home. Wilbur thought of Schlatt, of how he had taken his country and ruined it, destroying L’Manburg whether he meant to or not. He exhaled, hissing with fury. 

“My L’Manburg is gone,”

“What are you doing,” A familiar voice behind him startled his thoughts, and he turned to face Philza striding down the hall towards him.

He looked disappointed more than angry, which relieved Wilbur, but he could see his father’s agitation in the twitching of his feathers, on the great wings tucked against his back. Phil’s arms were crossed, strong against his chest. “What are you doing,” He repeated. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Nothing,” Wilbur said.

“Nothing?”

“No,” He paused, “Not nothing. Not nothing at all,”

“What, then?” Phil’s voice was even, but WIlbur could tell he was getting impatient. His expression was the same as when he had broken his nether portal as a child, an expression that said, ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed,’. Wilbur decided he hated it.

“Do you know what this button does?” He gestured to the stone button, still resting under his fingers. Philza nodded. 

“Have you heard the song on these walls? I-I was just saying, I was just explaining when you walked in, Phil,” He pointed to the scribbles nearest to him, the first lyric to the L’Manburg national anthem. 

“‘There was a special place, Phil. Was,” 

“L’manburg is right here, Wil. You’re standing in it,” Wilbur ignored him.

“I’m taking what’s mine, Phil!” Wilbur snapped.

“L’Manburg?”

“No, No. L’Manburg is gone, Phil! It was gone the moment Schlatt was elected. I’m taking it’s memory, I’m taking back my legacy!”

Wilbur turned and slammed the back of his fist into the button, a deranged smile splitting his face in two. He laughed triumphantly, adrenaline pumping through him. 

“If I can’t have L’Manburg,” he paused, “No one, NO ONE can have L’Manburg!” 

There was a short silence, before the whole city began rumbling as explosions, 10 stacks of TNT worth, wracked his former home. The wall with the button crumbled from the force, providing a window into the city. Deep, jagged scars tore through the city, shredding the Manburg festival grounds into a mess of debris and sinkholes. The nation was reduced to shambles, half-burnt and collapsed buildings scattered across the landscape. Smoke drifted sharply around the rubble of the city, smothering the cries of people hollering for help and wrapping the buildings in a blanket of ash and debris. Wilbur savored the screams, grinning ear to ear at the terrified cries of the survivors. 

Wilbur turned from his work, pulling his dagger from the folds of his cloak and twirling it in his fingers. He ran his fingers along the edge of the sharpened blade, drawing blood. 

“Kill me, Philza,” His eyes glowed with fire and locked onto Phil’s, “Kill me!” 

Philza stared at him, watching the blood drip down Wilbur’s thin fingers. He continued twirling the dagger, flicking crimson onto his old revolutionary’s uniform. Blood droplets flew across his white shirt, stark on the pristine fabric. He leaned towards Phil, pressing the knife into his shaking hands.

Philza stumbled back. The cold hilt felt too heavy in his hands, weighted by the dilemma he held. 

“I can’t,” Phil whispered, staring into Wilbur’s fiery eyes. “You’re my son. I can’t kill you,”

Wilbur pressed his chest against the tip of the blade. He leaned forward, his face perfectly calm, 

“Do it.” Phil didn’t respond.

“Look at them!” WIlbur gestured behind him, out at his masterpiece. Muffled screams still filled the air, suffocating the city.

“They would want you to do it,” He met his father’s gaze, his feral chestnut eyes meeting Phil’s clear blue ones. “Do it, Phil,” 

Philza closed his eyes and thrust the dagger forwards, feeling the resistance of his son's body and the hot, sticky blood brushing over his hands. Wilbur laughed, jubilant that he had completed his mission, that he had won. 

If he couldn’t have L’Manburg, then no one could have L’Manburg.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting anything, sorry for the cruddy writing I wrote this at 3 am :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
